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  Christ.

  Con felt ill at the thought of anyone doing any of that stuff to Tristan. Which, yeah, obviously wasn’t going to happen these days—he was much more likely to get beaten up for being gay or just generally annoying than for being Jewish—but still.

  But anyway, he didn’t want anything like that to happen to Tristan. More than he just generally didn’t want that sort of thing to happen to anyone. Because it felt like they’d, well, shared stuff. Were getting closer. And that was…

  Good, his heart said. Bad, his head knew. Con shouldn’t let it happen. Because Tristan was buggering off in a couple of months, wasn’t he? He just… He just had to remember that. Tristan couldn’t be more than a friend.

  “I thought we’d skip lightly ahead to Bottom’s awakening, once morning has come. It’s actually extremely poignant,” Tristan said practically the minute Con had walked in his door.

  Con looked at him, startled, as he toed off his trainers. It was a bit embarrassing how much bigger they were than the pair of posh shoes he’d left them next to. “Yeah? I thought it was, you know. More stuff for laughs. Like, he talks about hands tasting and ears seeing. Gets it all wrong.”

  “Oh, he does, he does. And yet…” Tristan paused, his hands stopped in mid-gesture. “It’s actually a very profound speech about our inability to say what we really mean. To share our thoughts, our feelings, our experiences with another person. Nick Bottom has had the most bizarre, most magical experience of his life—of the life of anyone he knows—and he’s doomed to struggle hopelessly with his words whenever he tries to relate it to anyone else. I read a book once…”

  “Good for you,” Con teased. It was about time he got some of his own back.

  “Shut up. I can’t remember what it was about, but one of the characters said something to another—to a lover—that really spoke about how we can never truly connect to another person. All we have is a touch and a voice, that was it. No matter how much we want our loved ones to really know us, we’re limited to words and gestures.” Tristan laughed, but he didn’t look all that happy. “The whole of human interaction: just one endless, and rather poorly organised, game of charades.”

  God, he looked sad, staring into space. It did weird things in Con’s chest to look at him, and he almost reached out to touch Tristan, maybe even hug him—

  But then Tristan was off again, striding around the room and waving his hands around like knocking stuff off the mantelpiece was something that only happened to other people. “And of course, Bottom is the only human character to actually cross over into the magical world of the fairies. We mustn’t forget that. He may be a fool, but he’s the only one who sees what’s really going on. The fact that he can neither comprehend nor express it is comic, on one level, and tragic, on another.” He stopped suddenly, dead in the middle of the living room, and sent Con a bright, brittle smile. “But I think we’ll work chiefly on the comic, for the benefit of our audience.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good,” Con managed, his throat a bit dry. “Um. Could I get a glass of water first?”

  Tristan stared at him. “Didn’t I offer you a cup of tea? Flask of wine, loaf of bread, et cetera?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Good God. Nanna Geary would have conniptions. Sit down, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Con sat on the sofa and wondered what exactly conniptions were while Tristan banged about in the kitchen with cups and stuff. After a moment, Meggie poked her furry head out from behind the armchair and padded over to rub her cheek on Con’s jeans. Pleased to see her, Con gave her a stroke.

  There was a picture of Mrs. Geary on the mantelpiece that hadn’t used to be there—there had used to be a picture of Tristan in his university gown, Con remembered now. It looked like quite an old photo, and Mrs. Geary was dressed up all tweedy, holding a baby. “Hey, is that you?” Con asked, giving Meggie one last pet on the head before getting up to peer at it more closely. The baby was just a pink blob in a white shawl, really.

  Tristan came back into the living room holding two mugs and a biscuit tin. “Yes. Of course, I hadn’t quite grown into my looks, back then. We’ve actually got a very similar picture of her holding Mother. We’re even wearing the same outfit.”

  Funny to think of her looking after generations of someone else’s children, and never having any of her own. “You know I always wondered if there was ever a Mr. Geary,” Con said, sitting down again.

  Tristan smiled. “Oh, there was, there was. It’s my belief,” he added in ringing actor-y tones, “she done the old man in.”

  Con blinked. It sounded like Tristan was quoting something, but he was buggered if he knew what it was. Then it came to him—Eliza Doolittle said something like that in Pygmalion. That’d been the first Sham-Drams production he’d helped out with, back last autumn. Con smiled, pleased to have got the reference. Tristan had probably expected that one to sail right over his head.

  Then it hit him what the bloke had actually said. “What?”

  “Well, not really. Mother used to joke about it, though. He seems to have disappeared in mysterious circumstances. He definitely existed—Mother was sent a piece of the wedding cake. She said it was rather dry. And then there were a few years when Mother didn’t really hear from her—just cards at birthdays and so on, and she was never really sure she had the right address. But Nanna Geary finally wrote to her when she—Mother, that is—became enceinte—”

  “What?”

  “Preggers, dear boy. Where was I?”

  “In the womb, then, I ’spect.”

  “Stop being witty. It’s unnerving. And, I might add, that gesture you just made is extremely vulgar.”

  Con grinned and put down the finger he’d been holding up.

  “So anyway,” Tristan went on, “Nanna Geary just reappeared at the house one day shortly before I was born, and didn’t have a word to say about Mister Geary—not that he was Mr. Geary, in actual fact. Some other name. But it was all terribly convenient for us, of course. Anyway, shall we to business, if you’re now suitably refreshed?”

  “Yeah. Course.” Con looked around, but Meggie had disappeared again. “You’re getting on better with Meggie now, then?” he asked idly.

  Tristan looked at him like he’d suddenly sprouted an ass’s head. “What? Oh, the cat? Haven’t seen a whisker of her. Or the frog, for that matter, but then again I’m fairly sure they don’t actually have whiskers.”

  “But…” Con shook his head, hiding a smile. “Never mind. Bottom’s speech, yeah?”

  “Absolutely. Now, try to imagine you’ve woken up in a forest with a hazy memory of having shagged a fairy you’d never met before… Feel free to draw on experience here.” Tristan gave him a wicked grin.

  Con might have known the Saturday afternoon session would end up with him getting talked into going to the evening’s rehearsal up at the hall. Even though it was way ahead of schedule for anyone else but Tristan to see him trying to act. He only really agreed to it in the end because, well, if it was a total disaster, it wouldn’t look good for Tristan, either, what with him being Con’s acting coach. So maybe Tristan was telling the truth when he said Con was ready for it?

  He hoped.

  Con had a feeling Tristan might’ve been talking to Heather behind his back, though, seeing as the first scene she wanted to go through was the one where Bottom wakes up in the forest.

  “Yeah, we went through that one this afternoon.” Con bit his bottom lip and winced at its soreness. His stomach was tying itself in knots and all. Shit, could he even remember the words? Let alone be all profound, and poignant, and all them other words Tristan had been chucking around earlier?

  Heather nodded. “Okay, let’s hear it. Don’t worry if you’re not word perfect,” she added, which Con supposed was meant to reassure him but just made him feel even less confident. Like she wasn’t expectin
g much from him.

  He took a deep breath and lay down on the floor, pillowing his head on his arms. Right. He could do this. What was the first thing? Yeah, that was it. He was Nick Bottom, and the last time he’d been awake he’d been half donkey. He let out a loud, hee-hawing snore, and startled up and looked around. The others were laughing, which made him feel a bit better. “When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer…” Then he frowned, and looked all around the room, shading his eyes as if against the sun. He couldn’t remember which of the others he was supposed to call for, so just called for all of them in turn. He knew the next bit. “God’s my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep!”

  “Okay, gonna stop you there,” Heather interrupted. “When you’re calling for the others—nice improv, by the way—I’d like to see you moving around the stage a bit more, yeah? Have a really good look, like you think they’re hiding behind a tree or something.”

  Con nodded. “Want me to do that bit again?”

  “No, carry on—but next time, yeah?”

  Shit. Straight on with the hard part. Con took a moment to pull the character back around him, like a warm coat on a winter’s day. “I have had,” he began slowly, “a most rare vision. I have had a dream”—he nodded to himself, then looked straight up at the audience—“past the wit of man to say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream.”

  He frowned and rubbed his face, imagining his skin felt strangely smooth, instead of a bit bristly with five o’clock shadow. “Methought I was—” He shook his head firmly. “There is no man can tell what. Methought I was,” he tried again, gesturing, like Tristan had said, to where the ass’s ears would have been in his previous scene—“and methought I had…” This time, the gesture was downwards, by his crotch because, well, if he was going to get an ass’s head, he might have got something else at the same time, mightn’t he? It’d certainly explain why Titania was so bloody fond of him.

  There was a burst of laughter, thank God. Con had thought that bit up himself while he was having his tea, and he hadn’t been sure they’d get the joke. “—but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had,” he went on, and managed to get to the end of the speech without forgetting the rest of his lines. The gestures Tristan had showed him really helped—made the words seem more natural, somehow.

  When he got to the end and smiled at his audience, still in character, he wasn’t prepared for the burst of applause he got. Course, Tristan was clapping the loudest, but Heather wasn’t far behind.

  “Oh my God, that was brilliant!” she squealed. “I knew you could do it. I knew it!”

  “Yeah, good stuff, mate,” Chris added, and everyone else was nodding and stuff.

  Con just stood there, gobsmacked. The most he’d hoped for was that they’d think he was all right. It was like… Shit, he couldn’t even think of anything that was like this. Maybe that one time he’d been playing football at school and managed to score a goal more or less by accident—he’d never really been quick enough on his feet to be good at team sports.

  No wonder Tristan loved this.

  The warm, fuzzy haze around him was still glowing as Heather got him to go through it again, this time moving around more, and even lasted through the rest of rehearsal while the others were doing their stuff.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ’Tis an Ill Cook

  Tristan felt rather as Professor Higgins must have upon Eliza’s glorious debut in society. Or Victor Frankenstein, upon his creature’s springing to independent life. He’d had no doubt he’d be able to coach Con into a passably successful mimicry of Tristan’s portrayal of Bottom—but Con had actually started to put himself into the role. Was coming up with his own ideas.

  Tristan’s insides were a turbulent mélange of justifiable pride and inexplicable melancholy as he trooped to the pub with the rest of the cast. He’d congratulated Con on his performance already, of course. Con had looked like he couldn’t believe his ears, which had added anger to the mess of emotions seething inside Tristan like an overambitious prop for the witches’ scene in the Scottish play. No doubt it had been the teachers at that execrable state school he’d attended who’d made him feel he’d never amount to anything. Boiling in a cauldron, Tristan considered, would be entirely too good for them.

  The company being too large for any one person to be expected to buy a general round, once arrived at the Three Lions they separated into smaller groups. Tristan found himself buying drinks for Con, Heather and Chris, who immediately detached themselves to join Rob and Sean in the corner. They were seated at a large table, no doubt thoughtfully chosen to allow the others to join them.

  Con accompanied Tristan to the bar. “That was amazing,” he said as they waited for their order to be filled. “I never thought they’d go for it that much. I mean, I know half of it’s probably just them being supportive—”

  “Bite your tongue.” Tristan was determined to nip such unwarranted modesty in the bud. “Supportive has nothing to do with it. Your performance was a tour de force.”

  “Yeah? Nah.” Con shook his head, still smiling in a glorious, joyful way that was entirely too distracting. “I mean, it’s good of you to say so—but anyway, if I was any good at all, it’s all down to you.”

  “Poppycock. Whether you like it or not, you’re a natural at this.”

  “It’s like…” Con’s brow furrowed. “You know when you were telling me how much you loved acting? I mean, I sort of got it—but now I really get it. It’s just… I dunno how you’re giving it up.”

  Something inside Tristan twisted so hard it hurt. How in God’s name was he going to give all this up? He was inordinately grateful that the barmaid chose that moment to place the last of the drinks on the bar and name her price, saving him from having to answer.

  Taking two of the glasses and leaving the other two to Con, Tristan led the way over to the table and took the seat next to Rob. Sean was eating a packet of pork scratchings and offered them round once the others had sat down. Tristan politely declined the revolting snack—really, how could anyone eat something described as scratchings?

  Con, who was seated on Tristan’s left, frowned, although he’d followed Tristan’s example and refused likewise. “I thought you didn’t keep kosher?”

  Interesting. Tristan was a little surprised to hear the phrase keep kosher falling so naturally from Con’s lips. Perhaps someone had been doing some research?

  Very interesting.

  “You’re Jewish?” Rob asked before Tristan could say anything.

  “Yes, what of it?” It came out perhaps a tad defensive, but then there had been something about Rob’s tone that implied there was more coming.

  “Just… I wonder you’re so fond of Shakespeare, then. He can be read as anti-Semitic.”

  Oh, that old chestnut. Tristan rolled his eyes. “Opinions vary; Marlowe was worse; Shakespeare probably never met a Jew in his life. Et cetera, et cetera. Do you also ask every female actor how she can bear to take a part written by a man who penned The Taming of the Shrew?”

  Rob laughed. “A fair point. Heather, do you have anything to say on the matter?”

  “Yeah, and what I have to say is, I’m knackered, and I just want a nice quiet drink without a discussion on whether a bloke who died five hundred years ago had modern attitudes or not. Cheers, Tris,” Heather added with a smile in his direction, raising her bottle of Becks.

  Tris? “I’m quite certain I never agreed to be truncated like that,” Tristan muttered, low enough that she probably wouldn’t hear him.

  Rob shrugged. “It just seems to be something that happens around here,” he whispered back. “Best not to make a fuss, or you’ll wake up one morning and find you’ve been christened something even worse.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What? Jew-boy? Kike? Yid? I’m assuming, given present
company, any homophobic epithets would be avoided.”

  Rob stared at him. “I was thinking ‘Goldie’, actually, for your surname, but to each his own.”

  Ah. “Hm. Goldie wouldn’t be so bad, actually. I’m a Cambridge man myself, so being named after the University’s second boat would be quite respectable—after all, even their reserve rowing eight has to be a damn fine crew.” Tristan smiled as a wicked thought hit him. “Plus, Goldie regularly has eight strapping young men at the peak of physical fitness pumping away inside her.”

  Rob blinked several times, rapidly. Tristan hoped he wasn’t experiencing a petit mal. Still, in for a penny… “And of course, one mustn’t forget the cox.”

  “Oi, you,” Sean put in, edging his stool around the table a tad so he could fling an arm around Rob’s waist. “No flirting with my bloke.”

  Con, Tristan was very interested to note, was frowning. “Flirting? Moi?” Tristan asked rhetorically, hand on heart. “We were having a serious discussion about sport.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Actually, yes,” Rob said, smiling rather adorably at Sean. “Well, technically about sport, anyway. But perhaps not entirely serious.”

  “Oi, you lot, budge up.” The other rude mechanicals had arrived en masse, each clutching a pint. For a moment, Con seemed frozen in indecision—which way to go? Tristan imagined him thinking. To the safety of Sean, or the temptation that is Tristan? Then he shifted his chair around so far Tristan-wards that when he stopped, their thighs were pressed up against one another.

  The surge of triumph in his breast, Tristan had anticipated. The frisson of yearning desire—or at least, the overwhelming strength of it—he had not. He was utterly, painfully aware of every inch of Con which touched him. All the more so, perhaps, because he was in no position to do anything about it.

  Tristan cleared his throat and turned to his unwitting tormentor, feeling a desperate need for distraction. “I’ve been meaning to ask, have you seen anything more of our retired Romeo?”